


The Pumpkin Witch

by vifetoile



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: Blue Sky (Portal), Complete, Domestic, Fairy Tale Retellings, Family, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 22:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17292332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vifetoile/pseuds/vifetoile
Summary: Bedtime stories, witches, knights, and family history... Chell and Wheatley's oldest child has some questions for her mum. Complete.





	The Pumpkin Witch

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Portal (that's Valve), OR Portal 2 (ditto) OR the world/history of Blue Sky (that comes from Waffles, all throw rose petals), OR the notion of a cute bunch of Chelley babies (that comes from an Oodles fanart). Thanks for reading!

This is Eaden, in late summertime and late in the day. It’s grown some in the last few years--more than a few people have settled down in a place where the radio and Internet signals are strong and the people let you alone, within reason. Eaden has grown, but it’s recognizable, still itself. Foxglove still watches over the town, still herself, though a little changed with the years.

Heavy clouds loomed overhead, and if they had their druthers there’d be impressive Wagnerian horns making ambiance, or at least some anxious violins. A few raindrops fell, promising a big late-summer storm. Most people of Eaden were already inside. 

But there was one still outside, and running hell for leather. A girl with sun-streaked blonde hair was tearing down Main Street, looking neither left nor right but focused on getting home before the storm hit. Fortunately, she had long legs and big feet, which propelled her onwards, and she knew the road very well. 

Home was in sight-- the little bakery just off town square-- she almost skidded round the corner, through the vegetable patch--aim for the back door-- the lights were on, she made a final bolt--

And tripped. 

Was it slippery mud? Was it a toy or tool left by one of her siblings? Was it bad coordination from a gel who kept shooting up and up?

One thing is for sure: she’d been running fast and so she landed hard, on the sandstone steps, and skinned her knee. 

She thudded to the ground and yelped, before she could clamp it down. She held her knee and started to swear, in the most colorful language available to a fourteen-year-old. She curbed herself quickly-- crying and getting mad was for babies. She wasn’t a baby. She had to be better--

The door to the house opened. Chell stood in the bakery doorway, outlined in light. In less time than it takes to tell, Chell had swept down the steps, knelt by the girl, assessed the damage, and set an arm under the girl’s shoulder to help her up. Together they entered the house, and Chell told the girl, “Kitchen counter,” and closed the door behind them. 

“Everything alright, then?” said Wheatley by the fireplace.

“Took a spill, don’t worry,” Chell said. She added the latter clause because she knew that, without the qualifier, Wheatley  _ would  _ worry, and so would the other people around the fireplace. And there was work to be done. In the kitchen cabinets there were bandages and ointments. The girl, whose name was Lark, had perched herself on the counter, feeling ridiculous as her legs dangled, but also (it must be said) a little pleased to have her mother’s undivided attention for once. 

“How was Marta?” Chell asked her as she began to clean away the blood and dirt. 

Lark started talking, aimlessly reporting news from her friends’ house, where she had had dinner. Lark was like her father in that way--talking could be a comfort, a distraction just meant to fill the air before Chell applied the-- yep, there it was, the medicine that stung like the devil-- Lark gasped and kept talking until the pain passed, and now Chell had applied the bandage, and it would heal fine, because Chell was Chell and she knew all about first aid. 

“Thanks, Mum,” Lark said. She looked up and met large grey eyes that were very like her own. Chell smiled. 

“Clean up in the mudroom, and come join us.” 

Chell tucked a lock of short blonde hair behind her daughter’s ear. In another household that may have sounded gruff, but Chell’s firstborn knew-- and her second-and-thirdborn were learning-- that such economy of words did not indicate lack of feeling. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

Lark hopped off the counter and crossed to the mudroom, putting her weight gingerly on the injured leg. There she toweled off the dirt and mud she’d acquired on her bare feet in today’s adventure, and observed that the rain had begun in earnest-- she’d come home just in time.

“Patched up and mended?” said Wheatley from the living room. “Come on in when you’re ready.” 

Lark hung up the towel, ran a broom around to sweep up the dirt she’d tracked in, and hurried into the circle of firelight, stepping over a cat. She stopped by the couch. “Mitchell,” she said, “ _ move _ .” 

Mitchell, ten years old, stuck his tongue out, but move he did, from reclining on half the couch to merely taking up the middle. Did he respect Lark’s authority as the Oldest, or did he realize that she could still take him in wrestling, if it came to that? Only Mitchell can tell you. 

On Mitchell’s left sat Willow, six-going-on-seven. Willow looked like their mother in miniature, except for her peculiar eyebrows, shaped like little black thumbprints. Lark narrowed her eyes at her--Willow had been prudent enough to grab the pillow with quilted apples on it, the best pillow for hugging. Willow coolly looked back, unperturbed by Lark’s glare. Point to Willow. 

Moving clockwise, closer to the fireplace, you would find Chell. Chell had positioned herself so that she could see every member of her family  _ and  _ keep an eye on both doors. Her pose was relaxed, yet capable of springing into movement at a moment’s notice. In fact, a few minutes ago, she had done just that. 

Little Guy was still smarting from having been pushed into Dad’s arms, merely because Lark had yelped outside. Little Guy, proper name Aaron, was only two, and he crawled back into Mum’s lap with an air of greatly offended dignity. Chell took him in and stroked his back, humming tunelessly until he settled. She relaxed a fraction more, now that her whole family was gathered again under one roof. 

And opposite Chell sat Wheatley, wearing a blue sweater and jeans that were well broken in. He smiled at Lark, and said, “Took a bit of a tumble? Feeling better now?” 

“A little,” she admitted. 

“Well, you know your Mum, there’s not a scrape or a scrap that she can’t patch up. You’ll be right as rain in the morning-- and listen to that rain! It’s really pouring down.” 

“It’ll be good for the garden,” said Mitchell with a grin. He had a semi-permanent crust of dirt under his fingernails from his work in the vegetable patch. 

“Right-o!” Wheatley’s smile was a mirror of his son’s. “Now, what kind of story do we want tonight?”

“The Pumpkin Witch,” piped up Willow before anyone else could speak. 

“No fair, it’s  _ my  _ turn!” said Mitchell, in the eternal rallying cry of the middle sibling. 

Lark settled in on the couch, rubbing her calves absently--growing pains again. She was too old and too cool to bicker about what to hear during storytime. Besides, she figured Willow would win out. Willow had been feeling poorly the past week, and Dad would want to humor her particularly. Instead of partaking in the argument, Lark reached over and picked up Zilla, their large tabby cat, who was amenable to cuddling. Lark couldn’t see Halloween, but she knew the black cat was lurking around somewhere.

Zilla twisted and settled in Lark’s lap as Wheatley said, “Alright, so, the Pumpkin Witch. What’s the story you want to hear?” 

“How did she become the Pumpkin Witch?” was Willow’s prompt reply.

The Pumpkin Witch. Perhaps the reader will need a little explanation-- Lark knew she, for one, had never heard tell of this character outside of Wheatley’s yarns. 

The Pumpkin Witch appeared in all of the stories Dad told. Sometimes she was a side character--in  _ Snow White _ , she was the one who helped Snow navigate the scary woods, and also taught Snow the Heimlich maneuver, which Snow taught to the dwarves in turn, and this plot point came in handy when poisoned apples entered the picture (Wheatley did not adhere to strictly traditional readings). Other times, the Pumpkin Witch was a hero in her own right, though she rarely used magic. The Pumpkin Witch thought carefully, journeyed bravely, and if she wasn’t always  _ nice _ , she was always someone you wanted on your side. She wore a witch’s hat-- naturally-- had a pair of “broomstick shoes” that let her jump vast distances, and her raincoat was pumpkin-orange.

Wheatley’s stories were peppered with odd characters like this. There was Kevin, who was a little like a wizard, at least a wizard in other people’s bedtime stories. Kevin wore striped yellow robes and had a telescope. He knew everything about space, and could help the Pumpkin Witch when she wanted to find someone. There was Rick, who wore a big-brimmed hat and a green poncho, and was always scrapping for a fight. Whether he was a helper or a foe depended on the night. 

And speaking of nights… 

The Airheaded Knight was another of Wheatley’s creations, probably second in line to the Pumpkin Witch herself in terms of appearances. The Airheaded Knight was equipped with all sorts of useful gear--sword, shield, maps, a flashlight  _ with  _ extra batteries-- except he was wrapped up in so much armor he could barely move on his own. He would happily loan his tools to the Pumpkin Witch, but sometimes he’d get real selfish out of nowhere, or cowardly, for all his armor. And, per his name, he was an airhead. 

But in his best mode, he could be cheery, and determined. In his best mode, he would help the Pumpkin Witch at just the right moment and never leave her side. Some stories ended with the Airheaded Knight getting free of his armor and becoming a normal, bumbling, airheaded man, and much happier for it. But the stories never really had an end. 

But did they have a beginning?

“How did she become the Pumpkin Witch…” Wheatley repeated, gazing at the ceiling. “Just remembering, gathering up the old noggin…”

“A witch isn’t a thing you become, it’s a thing you’re  _ born _ ,” said Mitchell to Willow, obnoxiously-- he did everything obnoxiously, at least according to Lark.

“Not necessarily.” Chell said, and everyone fell silent, except for Zilla, who mewed. “Sometimes a witch chooses to become one. She learns a little magic, yes, but mostly she keeps an eye on her people.” Little Guy, on her lap turned face-up and regarded her with big, serious blue eyes. She smiled at him.

“Really?” Willow asked. “You can choose to become a witch?” 

“Yes,” said Chell. “I read it in a book somewhere.” Halloween appeared at her right hand, as if by magic, and Chell stroked the cat. “It also helps you talk to animals.” 

“ _ Really _ ?” Willow asked. Willow firmly believed their mother could speak the secret language of cats. 

Wheatley said, “Got it! Where the Pumpkin Witch came from, how she chose witchery and pumpkins. Alright. So…” 

He looked at Chell, who said, “Once upon a time…”

“Once upon a time,” Wheatley repeated, “there was a prince without a kingdom. He had a head full of dreams, this prince fellow, but not a penny or piazza to his name. His parents had lost a lot of money on the stock market, you see, and there was just barely enough of a kingdom left to divide between the first and the second brother, and the third brother had gone off on an adventure, as third children will--”

At this Willow gave a huge grin, and said nothing. 

“--but the fourth brother? He was left with a couple of decent boots and a very loud voice, and one scullery-maid that everyone else had passed over. And even she might have run away that first night on the road, but she didn’t. She thought she might as well stay with the fourth prince, at least for now, as not. This maid was a clever girl, with a neat cap over her hair at all times. Her name was Caroline.”

“And the prince?” Willow asked. 

“The prince was called Cave.” 

“What were his other brothers’ names?” Mitchell asked, leaning forward. 

Wheatley paused, and you could almost  _ see  _ the thread of the story breaking apart, and then he said, “Peak, Dale, and Valley, but they don’t come into the story again.” 

“‘Kay.”

“Prince Cave and his assistant went west, looking for scientists and magicians.” 

“You said she was a scullery-maid,” Mitchell said. 

“Well, you can’t be a scullery-maid without a scullery,” Wheatley said, reasonably, “and she’d left that behind, so she was more properly a general assistant, all kinds of work.” He cracked his knuckles, took a breath, and said, “You all with me so far?” 

“Yes, Dad,” said Lark and Willow. Mitchell nodded. 

“Grand. They heard of a castle way on the other side of the mountains. It was a prime bit of real estate by all accounts, but no one dared go inside because an ogre lived there. Right nasty temper. And Cave, he said, well, we can take that fellow! I bet he’s nothing but talk, all bluster and no bite. Let’s go, Caroline. And off they went. 

“The castle was very big, and all made of white stone. The towers were so high they pierced the clouds. Cave and Caroline walked in and Cave hollered Oi! Big old ogre! Come out here and fight!

“And the ogre lumbered out and growled,  _ Fee Fi Fo Fum _ \--  _ I smell the blood of a real dummydums _ \--” 

Willow giggled. Mitchell insisted those weren’t the words. 

“Well, it was the spirit of the words,” Wheatley said, “and the ogre waved his big old club, nearly whacking them flat, but they dodged. And the ogre said he was a dreadful sorcerer, studying all kinds of magic, and if they knew what was good for them they’d scamper off on the double. 

“And that’s when Caroline spoke up. And she said, Oh, you’re a magic student? 

“And the ogre said, that’s what I said. 

“And Caroline was like, Oh, that’s real impressive, that is, but tell me, can you fill this room with shadows? 

“Now it was broad daylight, high summer outside, but the ogre grunted, waved his hand, said some magic words, and the room was suddenly dark as midnight. 

“And Caroline, she kind of twines her hair around a finger, she shrugs, and she says, Well, that’s not  _ bad _ , but it’s still real warm and stuffy, can you make it cold in here?

“The ogre gave a big old scowl and waved his hand, said magic words in a rather more pretentious manner, and then it got real cold, real fast. You could see your breath, if you were there. Snowflakes drifted down from the ceiling. And the ogre said, beat  _ that _ .

“And Caroline said, Well, that’s pretty nice, but a big old ogre like you, I bet you can’t turn into a wee little mouse. 

“And the ogre gets real mad, and his temper got the better of him, and he says three big magic words, stomps his foot, and before you know it he’s a teeny white mouse running around, very proud of himself. Well, Caroline was a scullery-maid, and she was second to none when it came to catching mice. She caught the mouse and broke its little neck. And so she and Cave got the castle all to themselves.”

“But where’s the Pumpkin Witch?” Willow asked. 

“I like  _ this  _ story,” Mitchell said. 

“Pumpkin Witch is almost here. We’ve almost gotten to her,” Wheatley said. “Cave got hold of the castle and he crowned himself king. And there was loads of treasure in the storerooms, and Cave was real happy. And Caroline found the ogre’s laboratories, all full of magical equipment and beakers and things, and she set to work learning magic. And Cave thought the castle was a mite lonely, with just the two of them, so he invited all kinds of people-- courtiers and poets, second sons of woodcutters, runaway princesses, jugglers and magicians and pop stars and all sorts. And Cave had a blast, bossing them all around, and his voice echoed around the walls of the castle, and Caroline helped things run smoothly, and eventually more and more people were studying magic along with her, but of course she was always the best at magic.”

Lark leaned back and tried to readjust her position. It was a little hard, as Zillah the rather large cat was fast asleep on her lap. There was something familiar about this story… Lark looked over at her mother. A loudmouthed prince, a very clever woman who ran the show… that honestly sounded like Mum and Dad. 

An idea occurred, and brought with it a an unpleasant sting. Was this… was this the story of how Mum and Dad met? Caroline had a couple letters in common with Chell. Had Dad been the fourth of four brothers? 

It was all circumstantial evidence, but Lark would admit to a passionate curiosity. Her family’s history was a blank. Dad talked with an accent like no one else in Eaden. Where’d he pick it up? Mum always seemed more intent on the present moment, their life now, the seasons as they came. By every account, including hers, her life began when she walked, fully-grown, into Eaden, from somewhere north-north-west. 

“So, with all their magicians-- Oh! I almost forgot! You remember the castle that was all shiny and pointy and up in the sky in the earlier part, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” came the response. 

“That castle, something real weird started happening to it. It started sinking. And it wasn’t a real problem, with magic and carpentry and a little work to board up the windows, but soon the entrances to the castle fell lower and lower down, and got all mossy and nasty. So keep that in mind.

“With all their magicians and all their guests, Prince Cave and Caroline decided they wanted to spice up the proceedings. They decided they’d make a game. They would squirrel themselves in the heart of their castle, and the rest of the castle turned into this big old maze, full of tricks and traps, and just a right nightmare to navigate, but whoever reached them would get silver by the sackful, and the  _ first  _ person who reached them, they’d become Cave’s heir, and get to boss around the whole castle and be king one day! So as you can imagine,  _ lots  _ of people decided to give it the old college try. 

“But… funny thing. Nobody who tried this test ever came back. And they wanted more people, so they sent out their soldiers to grab at anyone who came near the castle. There was a young lady what ran the ovens, and brought in bagels in the morning for the castle staff. And the soldiers grabbed her, too. By magic, they put her to sleep, a long, long sleep.” 

“Did she become the Pumpkin Witch?” Willow asked. 

Wheatley caught Chell’s eye, and said, “Yes, but that’s a story for tomorrow night. Go on, it’s time for bed, that’s enough of a story.” 

“Nooo…” 

“No, Mum says.” 

Lark had noticed by now that it was always  _ Mum says _ . Dad was bad at keeping to bedtimes. 

Willow groaned and begged Dad to pick her up-- he obliged. Mitchell got to his feet and offered to help Mum put Little Guy to bed. Halloween stalked towards the kitchen. The family generally moved upstairs-- that is, minus Lark. Lark took advantage of the solitude and stretched her legs out on the couch, stroking Zillah on her lap, and staring into the fire. 

Lark was no fool. She’d always known, or else figured out very early, that the Pumpkin Witch was based on Mum. Her mother never wore orange and certainly didn’t wear a pointy hat, but the actions of the Pumpkin Witch-- how she thought and acted, how she solved any problem, helped people and didn’t stick around for rewards-- it was Mum, through and through. 

But Dad’s stories weren’t  _ true _ . They didn’t reflect Eaden as Lark knew it-- Aunt Romy and Uncle Garrett had no counterparts in the story. Was Ellie Otten the Oracle, the pale figure with red eyes who spoke in riddles? Lark thought,  _ maybe _ , but it didn’t quite  _ fit _ . Ellie Otten, odd as she was, could speak plain when she wanted, and the jewelry and jackets she sewed up for Eaden’s people were no riddle. The Oracle was just the Oracle, weird and one-dimensional. 

But this story from tonight-- the prince, Cave, and his assistant who killed mice, and the castle sinking… something about it rang true. In a bad way. Lark found herself wishing she’d watched Mum while Dad spoke. Instead, Lark’s eyes had been fixed on the fire, and she’d been imagining the fairy-tale, never-land, make-believe world that Dad had patched together since Lark’s babyhood. 

Fairy-tale, never-land, make-believe. Right? 

Mum came back downstairs. Probably Dad was tucking in Willow, and Mitchell had settled down beside Little Guy, with a lamp and a book. Lark shoved Zillah off her lap, and said “I’ll help you clean up.” 

Mum didn’t stop her, but when Lark reached the kitchen table she found that most of the work had already been done. Undeterred, she charged towards the sink and started washing dishes with vigor. Mum started to dry the dishes and put them away. 

“Tomorrow, do you think you’ll--” Mum began. 

“Is Caroline you?” Lark blurted. 

Mum turned to her, and she looked as confounded as Lark had ever seen her. 

“Caroline. From Dad’s story. I thought-- is she based on you?” She stumbled over the words, and focused her eyes on the dishwater. “I know Dad came here four years after you, but you knew each other from before then. Is this story… I’m sorry, it’s stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid. But Caroline isn’t me.” 

Lark dared a glance at her mother. Her calm had returned, and she was drying a mug. “Caroline is someone I knew a long time ago.” 

“Oh.” Lark absorbed this, then went back to washing. “I always knew you were the Pumpkin Witch. But how  _ did  _ you and Dad meet? Is this the story of how you met?” 

Mum didn’t answer right away. Lark was on the verge of apologizing when she felt Mum’s hand on her shoulder. 

“I want to say, I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Chell glanced up at her, and smiled at how Lark frowned automatically. “But you  _ are  _ old enough. I forget how fast you’re growing.” She reached up and tucked a lock of summery blonde hair behind Lark’s ear. Her hand rested there, and she looked-- she looked like a little bit of different things, a little sad, a little wary, a little happy. “Lark.” 

She stood up to attention. “Yes, Mum?” 

“Finish up those dishes, and meet me at the table.” 

“Yes, Mum.” 

“Are you tired?” 

“No,” Lark said. She turned back to the dishes. 

When the dishes were all resting in the drying rack, Lark dried her hands quickly and hurried to the table. Mum had put on a kettle, and was measuring out lemon tea into a strainer. Beside her was a little plate of sliced peaches, Lark’s particular favorite treat in summertime. Lark stared, and gave herself a little shake. This story would either be long, or harrowing, or both. She braced herself and sat down opposite Mum. 

Soon, she knew, Dad would come downstairs. Would he add to the story, or would Mum gesture at him to hold his tongue? What was Mum going to say? The kettle began to whistle, and Lark sprang up, to pour the hot water into the teapot, and Mum added the strainer. 

There were already two mugs on the table-- a freckly grey one for Mum, and for Lark, her favorite, the one with sunflowers on it. Lark shook her head again. It felt weird. It felt like all of her life up to now was converging, about to be turned upside down, and she was about to see what lay underneath. Grubs, wriggling eyeless bugs, or roots and dark, rich soil? Maybe both?

She leaned forward onto the table, and in the blink of her eyes, she had an image-- the Pumpkin Witch, standing at the mouth of a cave that led down. And next to the Pumpkin Witch was another witch, exactly as tall but much younger, about to learn her first magics. 

Mum was watching Lark, and Lark reached out and linked their fingers. Mum’s face softened a little, and she pushed the peaches towards Lark. 

“You know how I always warned you away from going northeast?” she said. 

“Yes.” 

“There’s a place there. That’s where I come from.” Mum regarded the wood grain of the table, and then met Lark’s eyes. “That’s the castle.” 


End file.
